Chapter 215

Alyssa

“Nina, can I get another drink over here?” Ashley shouts from across the table like we’re at a rowdy dive bar instead of my impromptu baby shower.

I groan, bracing one hand on the table while the other rubs over the tight dome of my belly, trying—and failing—to ride out the contraction ripping through me like molten steel.

It’s been like this for two goddamn weeks now.

Nonstop.

Prodromal labor. That’s what Dr. Summers called it.

Basically, it means: Congrats, you’re in constant, soul-splitting pain—but your cervix doesn’t give a single shit about it.

Some days, the contractions hit every two minutes. Other times, they stretch to ten or fifteen. No rhythm. No logic. Just relentless pressure and enough false hope to make me want to scream.

And the worst part?

I’m not even dilated.

Not a single goddamn centimeter.

Thirty-seven weeks pregnant. With

twins. And somehow, my body still thinks we’ve got tim